


the curious habits of homo sapiens

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bird Crowley, But He's Not a Crow, Crowley is an asshole, Crush at First Sight, Firefighter Dean Winchester, Fluff, Good Omens References, Graduate Student Castiel (Supernatural), Humor, Lizards, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley had seen merepigeonsmore proficient at courtship rituals than Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester. But what can he, an abnormally large African grey parrot, do about it?(A lot, as it turns out. Quite a lot.)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	1. a pandemonium of parrots

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the lovely [tiamatv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv). thank you for putting up with my shenanigans (and my ~~cringeworthy~~ late-night writing).
> 
> disclaimer: i have only ever owned goldfish. all references and information are gathered from me, myself, and google.

Castiel liked to think that he had his life figured out, more or less. Sure, he hadn’t ended up pursuing a cutthroat corporate job like the majority of the Novak dynasty, and yes, he’d never found a pretty girl to settle down with (Balt from freshman year of university had appeared, chucking all sense of heteronormativity out of the door). But other than those two slight blemishes, he was doing fairly well on the Novak report card.

(Or so he thought.)

Between terrorizing organic chemistry students at the local university and moonlighting as an SAT tutor, Castiel rarely had time to rest or to properly take care of himself. He often went weeks subsisting solely on Death Wish coffee (Gabriel's fault) and Cup Ramen (also, technically Gabriel's fault), wondering how his diet as a graduate student could possibly be worse than that of a college freshman. It wasn’t that Castiel was a terrible cook, but rather the fact that he had deemed anything that took over six minutes to craft to be a gargantuan waste of time.

His staunch “six-minutes-or-bust” mandate had seeped into his daily routine, and Castiel’s hygiene became sporadic at best, his beard slowly caterpillaring through the remainder of his haggard face. He would occasionally forget to comb his hair or wear his contacts, and these—combined with his predilection towards ill-fitting suits and an overly humongous trenchcoat—had the unintended effect of confounding the people around him into thinking that he was merely a very perplexed hermit or the second coming of Jesus.

Try as he might, Castiel was only able to maintain this delicate equilibrium for so long. It all came to a head one chilly January evening when Gabriel burst into his apartment, a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand and a charcuterie board balanced in the other. Castiel—deep in the throes of eviscerating the first exam—barely startled at the sudden intrusion.

As much as Castiel loved his brother, he could be a bit much to handle. Gabriel Novak quite possibly had a few screws loose in his head, and, compared to Castiel, his Novak report card was considerably stained with his numerous misdeeds and _see me_ s. Unfortunately, Gabriel also happened to be the only person who Castiel felt close enough to confide in, an irony that was not lost upon him every single time his brother decided to waltz into his life.

“Oh, Cassie!” Gabriel sang as he deposited the board unceremoniously on the dining table, dried fruit and olives flying through the air.

“Yes, Gabriel?” Castiel used his pen to flick off a stray fig from Kevin Tran's exam. _47_. The poor kid had gotten his stereochemistry mixed up. There was no possibility he would remain a chemistry major.

“Let's drink!” A crash. Gabriel was evidently flitting around the kitchen, searching for God-only-knew-what.

“Gabriel, I have a full stack of exams I need to grade by Monday, and though I appreciate your enthusiasm, I need to focus.”

“No excuses, _mi hermano_!” Castiel let out an exasperated sigh as Gabriel dropped a tumbler on Jessica Moore's paper, sloshing drops of amber liquid over carefully drawn hexagons. “C'mon now, you gotta loosen up once in a while!”

So Castiel, being the ever-dutiful brother he was, shuffled his papers aside and took a long, hard swig.

By four glasses and one charcuterie board later, Castiel had reverted back to his innermost self: a babbling drunk. Or, as his SAT students would say, garrulous and soused. Generally speaking, Castiel could hold his liquor, but the potent combination of whiskey, his brother, and various cured meats did wonders for decimating his (metaphorical) walls. He curled up on the couch alongside Gabriel, who was intently staring at the finale of _Cutthroat Kitchen_. Castiel yawned as he wrapped an arm around a throw pillow, rubbing his eyes with the other.

“Your breath smells horrible.” Gabriel frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“Not your business.” Castiel's words were surprisingly coherent.

“Cassie, remember what I said about self-care and taking time for yourself? I don't think grading tests on weekends counts as relaxation.”

“But Gabrieeeeeeel,” Castiel whined, burying his head into the pillow. Silence fell, save for the sounds of Alton Brown gleefully taping a potato masher to some poor contestant's arm. The minutes ticked by before Castiel sprang up from the pillow, surprising Gabriel out of his own charcuterie-induced stupor.

“Sometimes I feel lonely.” Castiel began, and like that, the floodgates burst open. “Do you know how hard it is to grade one hundred and fifty six individual organic chemistry exams? And get asked inane questions like the difference between an alkane and an alkene? And Adler's been on my ass since day one about how many office hours I hold a week and I don't have the guts to tell him that I make more money teaching high schoolers how to use 'conflagration' in a sentence! Like, ‘the conflagration engulfed the remnants of my sanity’.” He paused and considered, drunkenly musing, “Now that's a sentence I should use more often. And!”

(The musing didn’t last long.)

“The only other person I interact with on a regular basis is Yuri, and he's the other TA, and he’s this ridiculously intimidating Russian grad student who can't even pronounce alkane and alkene correctly, and _that's_ probably why everyone gets confused by alkane and alkene and wastes my precious office hour time asking stupid questions! _And_ this is also probably why I don't have friends,” he finished. “Because I don't know how to deal with people. Everything _sucks_.”

Gabriel, momentarily inundated by Castiel's outburst, pulled his brother in close and patted his head comfortingly. “There, there, Cassie. Let it all out.”

“And I hate coming home at midnight and making Cup Ramen and eating it by myself because my schedule is absolutely horrendous.” Castiel clearly wasn’t done yet. “I can't even get a dog or a cat because I wouldn't even know where to start. And don’t even get me going on dating, because let’s be honest, who in their right mind would date a twenty-five-year-old washed-up graduate student who eats like a college freshman and has the social capabilities of a homeschooled kindergartener?” Castiel groaned. “I'm just sick and tired of being alone all the time.”

That final thought hung low in the air as he suddenly passed out, head thumping against Gabriel's shoulder. Onscreen, Alton Brown was now coaxing another contestant into a ball pit. Gabriel sighed as he wrapped his arms around his brother.

Castiel was right. He needed a friend.

( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘)

After ruminating on his rather petulant tantrum, Castiel threw himself into his responsibilities with such reckless abandon even Adler himself—that damn advisor—was astonished. His usual 8-to-6 schedule burgeoned towards a deathly 6-to-1, and his beard had declared victory over his face and was now wreaking havoc on his neck. He began extending his office hours, and it wasn't at all uncommon to walk into the library and find a crazed-looking man pointing wildly towards a whiteboard and preaching about the different conditions for nucleophilic substitution with a crowd of terrified undergraduates huddled around him like disciples of some newfound religion. Or witness the same man grilling high schoolers on the difference between “inchoate” and “insouciant” mere hours later.

The sudden onset of anxiety, ironically, did wonders to alleviate Castiel’s stress. Having grown up in an environment where everyone was encouraged to hide their weaknesses (not Gabriel, sure, but that was perhaps because no one thought Gabriel, in all his maniacal glory, had weaknesses that could be easily exploited), Castiel had only began to understand the tension and constant state of apprehension he had been in. Adler’s constant yelling, coupled with excruciatingly long office hours and brain-paralyzing grading periods, had left Castiel in a near-constant state of stress.

Gabriel wasn't pleased by this development at all. He knew that his younger brother was desperate for relief—he just had to formulate a way to facilitate said relief. Which was how he found himself, a few weeks later, standing outside Castiel's apartment complex in the wee hours of the morning and shuddering in the cold, once again sporting gifts of goodwill. Gone were the charcuterie board and Wild Turkey, replaced by a large, towel-covered cage.

And then the cage had the audacity to _squawk_ when Gabriel called Castiel.

“—please do not tell me you brought me a godforsaken bird,” Castiel finished. Horrified, Gabriel cupped a hand over his phone and hissed at the cage.

“Be quiet!”

“No,” came the petulant response.

“Gabriel?” Castiel's voice was laced with suspicion. “Is there someone else out there with you?”

“Um, no.” Gabriel paused. “Well, kinda? But not really? Look, I lost the keys I made for your apartment, so if you could just let me in, that'd be peachy. Please?”

“Fine. But you better tell me what's going on.” The line went dead, and the door buzzed open.

Castiel was waiting, apartment door open, as Gabriel trudged towards him, panting at the exertion of carrying his surprise up three flights of stairs. Gabriel’s black-haired brother immediately narrowed his eyes, training his gaze at the offending object.

“I don't even want to know how you managed to misplace a key that you weren't supposed to have, but please enlighten me as to what _this_ ,” he pointed at the cage, “is, and what it's doing here.”

“Shh. You'll scare him. He doesn't like dark places, but I had to sneak him out of my place, and this was the best way.”

“You? ‘Sneak out?’ _Him_?” Castiel's voice was growing shriller by the second, and Gabriel realized that he was on the edge of a full-fledged meltdown. Having been on the receiving end of many Novak tantrums, Gabriel quickly hustled his brother—and the cage—into the apartment and shut the door.

“Tell me what's going on, Gabriel!” Castiel glowered as soon as Gabriel finished locking the door. He reached forward and lifted up a corner of the blanket, gasping at what was underneath.

“Well, uh, you see,” Gabriel scratched his head. “Funny thing is, Kali—you remember Kali, right?—well, she's moving in with her boyfriend who’s—drumroll please—allergic to everything! And when I heard about her story and about poor Crow's plight, I knew that this was a sign.”

Castiel closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “Isn't Kali your therapist?”

“Yeah, but that doesn't matter!”

“So isn't this some sort of breach of patient-therapist confidentiality?” Gabriel could see his brother was seconds away from an aneurysm.

“Tsk, tsk, I'm Kali's therapist just as much as she is mine. But that's not the point! I got you a friend, Cassie.” Gabriel waved his hands wildly through the air. “And I know that people aren't your strong suit, so what better to start with than an overly-intelligent bird? Plus, Crow’s amazing. He's sat in on some of my sessions before, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing in the world quite like having a parrot comfort you when you're in a deep and vulnerable emotional state.”

“I fail to see how it will bring me any sort of enlightenment.”

“ _He_ , not it. You gotta respect his pronouns, Cassie!“ With a flourish, Gabriel pulled off the covering. “Castiel, meet Anthony J. Crowley, parrot psychiatrist extraordinaire—or Crow, for short. Kali went through a Gaiman phase. Don’t ask. And Crow, meet Castiel, my dearest and most beloved baby brother.”

Castiel found himself eye-to-eye with the rather intimidating, red-eyed stare of a gigantic grey parrot. To his credit, the parrot didn’t seem fazed by the bushy-haired, blue-eyed man standing in front of him.

“Go on, introduce yourselves!” Gabriel gestured between the two.

“Excuse me?” Castiel turned towards his brother. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Say hello! Don't be shy—Crow doesn't really bite unless he feels threatened. And I doubt he feels threatened by,” and Gabriel motioned in Castiel's general direction, “you. You're literally the least threatening thing here.”

“Thank... you...?” Castiel looked back at the parrot and rolled his eyes. “Hello, Crow. I'm Castiel.”

The parrot raised a claw.

Castiel's eyes bulged as he took a step back. “It—no, I mean, _he_ , he understands me?”

“Kali swears that he's not, y'know, _completely parrot_.” The last part was spoken in a conspiratorial whisper, as if Gabriel was afraid Crow the parrot would be offended.

Castiel glared at his brother, then at the parrot, then back at his brother. “Gabriel, I've never even owned a bird before. You remember what happened with Hetty, right?”

Gabriel grimaced as he thought back to the fifth-grade-fish-fiasco. “Yes, I remember Hetty, that poor dear. But it’ll be different this time! You’re older and wiser.”

“How am I supposed to take care of him if I can’t even take care of myself?” Castiel gesticulated towards the rest of the apartment, cringing as he took in the sight of his delicately balanced binders, though by delicate he meant _erupting within the forest of textbooks and bordered by a raging cascade of looseleaf notes_. “I mean, look at this mess!”

“Honestly, your apartment looks fine to me. And I’m sure Crow won’t mind, would you now, Crow?”

The bird tilted his head inquisitively. “Crow okay.”

“See? He’s chill with it!”

“Gabriel, you’re just projecting on the poor bird,” Castiel muttered. He was beginning to think that it was a terrible idea to let Gabriel persuade him into another commitment. His mind raced back towards his “six-minutes-or-bust” mandate, flinching when he realized how much more time he would need to take care of a bird.

“Now don’t get your pretty little eyes crossed, baby bro! Crow here is very well-adjusted and emotionally stable… well, if I do say so myself. And he’s fairly low maintenance, too! Just open up the cage, feed him some pellets and fruits and seeds, and he’ll be your best friend in no time.”

Castiel eyed Crow warily. “And you’re sure about this.”

“I’ve never felt surer in my life!” Gabriel ecstatically rotated Crow’s cage towards a relatively clean corner next to Castiel’s bookshelf. “I can already picture his cage here, the two of you cuddled on the couch, watching _Cutthroat Kitchen_ , you blabbering about your whatchamacallits and thingimagigs—” he wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s the start of a beautiful thing, Cassie.”

In that exact moment, Crow decided to raise his tail and let loose a stream of bird excrement all over Castiel’s only copy of Wade’s _Organic Chemistry_ textbook.

The start of a beautiful thing, indeed.

( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘)

The first few days were certainly tough—Crow had opted for the silent-yet-potentially-deadly treatment, constantly sizing up Castiel silently each time he entered the room but squawking at all inopportune times of the night. Crow was initially meant to stay locked inside the cage, but the parrot had proven himself to be quite the runaway. By the umpteenth time he’d weaseled his way out of confinement, Castiel simply stopped locking the cage and allowed Crow to fly free and do as he pleased. For his part, Crow never tried to escape the apartment—perhaps it had something to do with the steady buffet of ZuPreem, vegetables, and seeds that Castiel presented to him every morning like some five-star Michelin feast. The parrot seemed to enjoy pistachios the most, chucking bits and pieces of broken shell in Castiel’s general vicinity whenever the man was too engrossed in grading exams or concocting SAT worksheets.

And the talking. Dear Wöhler, the talking. Gabriel had clearly neglected to warn him about just how much the parrot liked to vocalize. Once Crow had settled in and asserted dominion over what was left of Castiel’s living room, the bird had sprouted an arduous and neverending diatribe. Castiel had first tried to teach him new vocabulary while prepping for his tutoring sessions, but that turned out to be a horrible mistake. Between the SAT sessions and Gabriel’s constant visits, Crow had amassed a vocabulary rivaling that of a PhD candidate with the potty mouth of a high schooler who had recently discovered the word “fuck.”

“Deplorable vittlesss,” Crow muttered when Castiel dropped a particularly squishy grape into the metal bowl.

Castiel scowled.

“Fuck off,” the parrot shrieked. Now that was definitely Gabriel’s doing. Or it could’ve been Castiel’s neighbor’s fault. His unfairly attractive neighbor’s fault.

Said unfairly attractive neighbor had moved in a few weeks ago—not that Castiel was counting or anything—and had quietly but firmly embedded himself into Castiel’s chest from the first green-eyed wink. Or was it his freckles? Castiel wasn’t quite sure. He had been too busy hiding behind the gargantuan boxes of exams to really take a look, then, naturally ,proceeded to accidentally drop said boxes of exams on the floor, papers scattering everywhere. His neighbor had quickly swooped to the rescue, grabbing papers left and right, while Castiel rattled apology after apology, looking everywhere but his savior’s face.

Word of his humiliating first meeting somehow found its way to Gabriel who, unsurprisingly, teased him mercilessly. “Cassie, when I said you should go out and fall for a nice guy, I didn’t mean that you should literally drop yourself at his feet.”

“Gabriel, leave it.”

Frowning, Gabriel turned back towards the selection of parrot food before him. “Aww, but Cassie, isn’t this the perfect meet-cute? You, the twenty-something graduate student, him, the—hm, actually, I’m-not-sure-his-age-or-his-profession guy. What a story to tell your two adopted kids.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel muttered, rifling through the mountain of bird toys in the crate. “Be quiet. I’d rather you not broadcast my romantic woes to all of PetSmart right now.”

“Whatever you say, baby bro.” Gabriel plucked a package of parrot cuttlebones from the shelf, skimming the label. “‘The key to your bird’s health’. Ooh, you should show off some moves next time you meet him. Throw on some of that Novak charm I taught you.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Could be something like, ‘Hey, I think we have great _chemistry_ together’.”

Castiel could feel the beginnings of a blush staining his cheeks. “Gabriel, please stop.”

“Or maybe,” Gabriel shook the cuttlebones in Castiel’s general direction, “something like, ‘Ya wanna _bone_ —’”

“Gabriel!” Castiel hissed, absolutely mortified. He did a quick look in their vicinity, hoping that no one heard Gabriel’s (somewhat) filthy innuendo. Thankfully, there was no one around besides a tall, confused-looking man in the corner next to the live crickets.

“Chill, Cassie. But maybe you should go for it next time, just saying.” Gabriel hoisted the bag of Zupreem underneath his arm as they made their way towards the registers. “There’s no time like the present to go for what you want!”

Castiel shot him a glare laced with an unspoken _we-will-never-speak-of-this-again_. Gabriel wisely chose to shut up.

In the coming days, Castiel forgot all about his encounter—that was, until _it_ happened.

For the most part, his neighbor had been fairly reasonable, aside from the minimal amounts of banging and cursing at odd hours, the occasional “bitch!” or “jerk!” being thrown around. Crow had quickly stored these words into his arsenal and would show off his newfangled talents regularly, much to Castiel’s consternation and Gabriel’s delight.

Then, the singing started.

It was bearable, at first. Castiel wouldn’t consider himself an acoustical aficionado—he was a casual enthusiast, at best. What his neighbor lacked in formalities he made up for with his choice of music—more specifically, the repertoire he chose for his biweekly late-night karaoke sessions. It wasn’t that his neighbor chose terrible music or was bad at singing, per se—Castiel had caught himself humming along to the thrums of AC/DC at times during particularly mind-numbing grading periods—but the volume that bothered him the most. The walls in the apartment were paper-thin. While the majority of the complex was comprised of geriatric retirees who didn’t seem fazed by the noise, Castiel struggled to focus while writing up recitation problem sets, or figuring out new methods to teach Kevin about stereochemistry (that poor boy still didn’t understand a thing).

On the other hand, Crow had launched himself into a new frenzy, picking up an uncanny ability to sing along to the music. It didn’t help that Crow seemed to take some unholy pleasure in Castiel’s obvious discomfort by spontaneously combusting into song whenever the poor man least expected it… which was usually right before Castiel’s alarm clock went off or right after he went to bed. The parrot’s singing—if one could even call it that—left a lot to be desired, and Castiel had gone through dozens of pairs of earplugs before he decided to spend what little money he had left in his bank account on a new pair of Beats headphones. Unfortunately, Castiel was rather forgetful about charging said headphones, and most days, he graded or studied in agony to the off-key chirps of Metallica or Lynyrd Skynyrd.

This very nearly drove Castiel to his limit.

Said limit came to a crescendo when one evening, after an exceptionally long _optional-but-actually-secretly-mandatory-or-Adler-will-kick-you-out-of-the-program_ graduate student seminar, during which he had almost fallen asleep twice. Castiel came home to the familiar percussive beats of the opening to “Ramble On,” accompanied by the steady splashing of a shower. He checked in on Crow (the parrot was roosting comfortably beneath the cage cover), slouched dramatically into his chair, and began brainstorming the one hundred and twenty seven individual multistep synthesis problems for his students.

Adler was one hell of a sadist.

The music and the singing grew louder. Castiel gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening their grip on his pen.

It must’ve been a Led Zeppelin night, because he could swear that his neighbor had warbled through “Ramble On” at least four times—even after the shower stopped—with the volume increasing with each successive round. By the fifth time, even Crow had roused himself from his sleep and was growling agitatedly in his cage, the _scritch-scratch_ of his claws grating against the wooden perch and on Castiel’s few remaining nerves.

Castiel was in the middle of drawing an extraordinarily complicated ester when Crow’s clicking stopped. Something didn’t feel right. Castiel could feel the hair prickling at the back of his neck. He heard a low rumble from the parrot’s cage.

Crow was whistling. _Oh, no, not now_.

“ _I gotta ramble on_ —” Crow trilled.

Castiel almost fell out of his chair. “Crow, no!”

“— _sssing my sssong_ —”

“Crow, can you please—I’m trying to—”

“ _Gotta work my way around the world, baby_ —” Crow croaked back with a smirk. (Was it even possible for parrots to smirk?)

“Crow, I’m warning you.”

“ _WELCOME TO THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA_ —” the parrot screeched.

“That’s—that’s not even—that’s it!” Castiel stomped over to his front door, yanked it open, and pounded down the hallway until he reached the next apartment. His heart was thumping as he raised a fist and knocked, brusquely.

And again. And again.

The music stopped, Robert Plant choking on the outro as Castiel heard the sound of footsteps thudding towards the door. “Hold on, Charlie, just got outta the shower. Bet you don’t want to see me half-naked—well, not like you’d care but—” the door swung open. “Oh. You’re not Charlie.”

No combination of synonyms for _jaw-droppingly handsome_ from Castiel’s Kaplan or Barrons SAT vocabulary flashcards could do his neighbor justice. He’d been right about the eyes and the freckles, of course, but he hadn’t factored in how everything—combined with a blindingly white grin, and _holy Fischer, was he only wearing a towel_ —would translate into his already-exhausted brain.

Castiel belatedly realized the awkward silence falling around them was his doing when his neighbor’s grin slipped into a frown. “Oh, yes,” Castiel managed. “Unless Charlie is your next-door neighbor, then I suppose I’m not Charlie.”

_Pull it together, Castiel. You’re a grown man_. He mentally kicked himself, wondering how inept he sounded.

“Charlie’s cute and all, but you, you’re definitely something else.” His neighbor winked, sending Castiel’s mind into overdrive. Here he stood, face-to-face with (arguably) one of the most attractive men he had met in all of his twenty-five years, and he was—for lack of a better term—tongue-tied.

_There’s no time like the present to go for what you want!_ He could almost feel a tiny Gabriel whispering into his left ear.

_He’s terribly inconsiderate, and you should put him in his place_. On his right shoulder, tiny Castiel waved a stack of unfinished syntheses problems threateningly.

Tiny Castiel won out. Castiel gritted his teeth. “Well, I just came over to ask if you, as a fellow resident and tenant of this apartment complex, wouldn’t mind lowering your music volume to… say, something more appropriate for 11 PM on a Thursday night?”

“Oh, shit.” The man bashfully scratched his head, grimacing. “Sorry ‘bout that. I didn’t realize how loud it was. I’ll turn it down in the future, okay?”

“That’s okay.” Castiel smiled blandly at the apology. “I’m merely surprised that Missouri hasn’t come up here to give you a piece of her mind.”

“Missouri?”

“Missouri Moseley from 2E? The landlady?” _For heaven’s sake, do you not even know who you’re renting from?_

“Oh, uh, yeah, her. Think I met her once.” The man reddened and adjusted the towel around his waist. “I’m usually only home a few times a week, so I haven’t really met many people here.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I fail to see how this is relevant, given our current situation.”

He watched his neighbor’s face turn to stone and immediately clapped his hand to his mouth. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “That came out wrong.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you sound like an asshole?” Gone was the megawatt grin, an angry scowl in its place. “I already said ‘sorry.’ What more do you want?”

_Way to make a first impression, Cassie_. Tiny Gabriel punched his left shoulder while tiny Castiel buried his face in his hands on the opposite side. _Just great. Your first real human interaction with someone other than your brother in who-knows-how-long, and you screw it up. Now he thinks you’re the asshole_.

Castiel groaned, blood pulsing into his sleep-deprived brain as he mumbled aloud, “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I’m just bad at talking to people.”

His neighbor’s eyes softened. “No, you’re good. Just came off my 24, so I’m a bit twitchy.”

“24?”

“Oh, my shift. I’m a firefighter.”

“That’s very admirable.” Cas could feel his heartbeat slowing to a reasonable pace. “I can understand why you’d want to… destress after your job.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to bother my cute neighbor any more than I already have.” His neighbor winked. “The name’s Dean, by the way. Figured you might want to know my name if we’re going to see each other more often.”

“We—we what?” Castiel asked in confusion. _Cute_? Tiny Castiel and Gabriel were running in circles around his head.

Dean laughed, his whole body shaking as he held onto the only thing maintaining his modesty. “Dude, the least you could do is to give me your name.”

A croaky voice noted, “ _His name is Cassstiel, like passstel_.” A flutter of wings, and Castiel yelped as Crow landed on his shoulder, feathers fluffed. He took a moment to steady himself before looking back at Dean. The poor man looked absolutely bewildered.

Crow merely cocked a claw in greeting.

“What the fuck?” Dean took a step back, face twisted in confusion. “The bird? Talk? Your name? Wha—?”

Castiel’s eyes shot daggers at Crow. The parrot was nonchalantly biting at his claws, pausing only to waggle a talon in his general direction.

“My name is Castiel,” Castiel stated, tiredly. “And please don’t listen to him, Crow’s being fussy today.”

“But he’s not a crow.”

“Indeed, he is not.”

“But why—”

“My brother has a terribly juvenile sense of humor.”

“Huh,” Dean breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Brothers can be weird, amirite?”

“You could say that. Gabriel is definitely an acquired taste.”

A hush of awkward silence fell over them. Crow whistled innocuously, eyes fixated on the two men before him.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting cold, so—” Dean motioned helplessly towards his apartment. “I’m gonna get going. But I hope I’ll see you around, Castiel.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel paused. “I suppose I’ll see you later.”

“ _Casssie means bye_!” Crow chortled before flying away, Castiel chasing after him in embarrassment while Dean’s muffled chuckles echoed down the hall.

That damn bird.


	2. a lounge of lizards

> [jerk // 12:01 am] nope nope nope  
>  [jerk // 12:01 am] never gonna happen  
>    
>  [bitch // 12:04 am] But Dean, she’s a bearded dragon, not a snake.  
>    
>  [jerk // 12:05 am] doesn’t matter. i don’t like scaly things that slither around  
>    
>  [bitch // 12:07 am] Bearded dragons don’t slither, Dean. They crawl.  
>    
>  [jerk // 12:10 am] same difference  
>  [jerk // 12:11 am] i swear if i see that thing when i get back  
>  [jerk // 12:11 am] heads r gonna roll  
>  [jerk // 12:12 am] sammy i am dead serious  
>  [jerk // 12:12 am] i’m not kidding

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Dean tried to make good on his threat; he really did. But the only heads rolling were the dismembered cricket skulls tumbling across the bottom of the monstrous glass terrarium that was sitting smack dab in the middle of his apartment.

Most people who knew Dean Winchester were aware that once Dean made a promise, he usually kept it. With a (somewhat) volatile personality and tenacity befitting a stubborn elephant, Dean was committed towards the oaths he took. (This came in especially handy when he first became a firefighter.)

Fewer people knew that the easiest way to get through Dean’s defenses was to go through his younger brother. Dean was completely devoted to Sam’s well-being, dedicating the remainder of his precious time to ensure that his brother was doing okay.

When a younger Sam wanted the last slice of apple pie from the fridge, Dean gave it to him without a second thought, even though he really, really wanted that sweet treat himself.

When a curious Sam casually mentioned that he was trying a pescetarian diet “for kicks,” Dean threw out his beloved burgers and made it through a month before the sheer expense of eating only seafood caught up to his dying bank account.

And when Sam dropped the bombshell that he was going to attend law school in a city three hours away from where Dean was working, Dean pulled some strings to arrange a transfer that moved him into the same city where Sam’s school was located.

(So, yes. Sam was the one person who, with his coveted status as Dean’s little brother, had an uncanny ability to get Dean to agree to his every whim)

Dean glared angrily into the terrarium.

A tiny red lizard stared back at him with dark, foreboding eyes.

Black clashed with green.

The lizard opened its mouth and stuck out its pink tongue at him. Dean had to begrudgingly admit that, as far as lizards went, this one was somewhat cute, with delicate red stripes painting down her spine and a tail that flicked idly in the air.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Sam sauntered in from the kitchen, hands clutching two oversized bowls filled with what appeared to be leafy greens and other dreadful vegetables that Dean would rather avoid. “I’m so glad Lucian let me take her before he left town.”

“Her?”

“Ruby.” Sam placed the bowls on the table and wiped his hands on his shirt before pointing towards the terrarium. “Her name is Ruby.”

 _That’s funny_ , Dean thought to himself. He’d always entertained the idea that the name Ruby sounded more like a name for a sleek white horse or a bombshell of a stripper, not the name of the small, feisty reptile currently taking up precious space in his already cramped living room.

As if sensing his thoughts, the lizard turned towards him and let out a squeaky hiss.

“Honestly, she kinda freaks me out.” Dean turned towards his brother and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Remind me again why you thought bringing Ruby here was a good idea?”

“Because I’m an RA and pets aren’t allowed in on-campus dorms?” Sam offered, folding his arms into what Dean liked to call his _I’m-almost-a-lawyer-and-I’ll-fight-you_ stance. Dean had borne witness to Sam’s past arguments, and he was far too tired to take on his brother at this point.

“Okay, but I still don’t get why you decided to agree to Lucian’s request to take his pet.” Dean hadn’t been the biggest fan of Sam’s research advisor, and he’d found the blond man to be a bit creepy and downright predatory at times. But Sam, _everyone-deserves-a-chance_ Sam, had stuck to him with all the steadfastness of a gigantic, easily-attached puppy—even after Lucian had skipped town due to some “unfortunate circumstances”.

Dean read _that_ email over Sam’s shoulder one day, and though he didn’t even want to hazard a guess as to what those “unfortunate circumstances” meant, most everyone in town seemed to have a good idea. Especially after the local newspaper ran a headline about some law professor embezzling funds from the university.

“Dean, Lucian’s not a bad guy. He’s just misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood, my ass. He practically groomed you to be his personal servant.”

“It really wasn’t like that,” Sam remarked ruefully. “I just helped him with some paperwork here and there, a couple of late nights to run through some cases—y’know, the usual.”

“‘The usual’ being ‘extorting the university for half a million dollars?’”

“Can we change the subject?” A carrot slice flew towards Dean’s head and he ducked, the vegetable bouncing off the table and falling on the floor. “Like, why are you so against Ruby staying here?”

“Dude, I don’t want some criminal’s pet lizard in my apartment,” Dean sniffed.

“For the umpteenth time, Ruby’s a bearded dragon,” Sam huffed. Dean noticed how his little brother didn’t bother to correct his usage of _criminal_ to describe Lucian.

“Bearded dragon, schmeared wagon, they’re all the same to me. Plus, she reminds me of a snake, and you already know how I feel about those things.”

Dean felt beads of sweat gathering on his forehead as he remembered that fateful childhood trip to the zoo—the one where Fluffy, the friendly boa constrictor in the petting exhibit, had taken a shine to him, wrapped itself cheerfully around his small body and squeezed, oblivious to Dean’s sputtering and flailing. Dean had been so petrified he couldn’t even scream, and it had taken several adults to pry the enthusiastic reptile from around his body. After that incident, he was naturally wary of any slithery, scaly creatures that he met, and Ruby—angry, fun-sized Ruby—was no exception.

The liza—fine, _bearded dragon_ —raised an arm threateningly, claws outstretched.

Dean blinked. “Is she… flipping me off?”

Ruby raised her arm even higher.

“Ugh, I won’t be disrespected by a goddamn reptile in my own apartment,” Dean declared. “Look, Sammy. I know you like Ruby, and she seems like she could be a great pet, but I don’t think I can handle taking care of her, especially with my schedule and all. You already know that the 24-48 is pretty rough. I barely have time for myself.”

And, well, it was true. Dean, being a firefighter, often worked borderline ridiculous hours for weeks on end, and even when he was home, he was usually so exhausted that his precious off-time was devoted towards eating or sleeping before his next shift started. He barely had time to practice self-care, let alone care for an animal that wasn’t even his in the first place.

Dean watched as his brother slumped into a chair. He knew that Sam was a (relatively) law-abiding citizen who didn’t want to run the risk of being discovered with a pet in a decidedly no-pets dormitory. The irony of a law student being caught breaking the rules was much too on the nose, even by Dean’s standards.

“But _Dean—_ ” here, Dean noticed how Sam was putting on his puppy-dog-eyes, “—you’re literally the only person I trust here who has the space to take care of Ruby.”

Dean frowned at him.

“Please, Dean? I promise I’ll come take care of her every single day. I’ll even pay for all of her food and supplies. You know I will,” Sam pleaded.

“Fine.” Dean shook his head in exasperation. “You can leave your stupid bearded dragon here. But you have to promise me that you’ll actually come take care of her. I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll be around to look after her, especially if I’m trying to figure out my own shit.”

“Of course!” Sam grinned. Dean glared at him.

“And tenant sets the rules, squatter shuts his piehole, so I don’t want to hear any complaints about anything.”

“Yeah!” Sam pumped a fist in the air.

Dean padded into the kitchen, defeated. He needed a beer.

(And a better way to handle his little brother. Yeesh.)

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 _Tick, tock_. _Tick, tock_.

Dean glared daggers at the clock on the engine house wall, willing the last few minutes of his shift to roll by faster. It had been a relatively humdrum day, save for a field trip from the local elementary school that left Dean scratching his head over the things that kids were actually interested in these days. Most of them had been fixated on the dorms and the kitchen, with only a few students venturing around the actual firefighting aspects of the station and sliding down the fireman’s pole with help from Dean and his crew.

And after the kids left the station, Dean took a quick breather before facing down a gargantuan mountain of paperwork. He won, though not without a few casualties in the form of chewed-up pen caps and crumpled paper balls.

Dean’s pocket buzzed, and he stretched in his seat before fishing out his phone. Earlier that morning, Sam had been ranting about some huge unit exam tomorrow and how he was going to hole up in the local library until further notice. _Would you please get me some dinner please_ flashed onscreen.

(The lengths that Dean would go for his brother, really.)

“Yo, Mick.” He tossed a crumpled paper ball in the vicinity of his fellow firefighter. “Wanna grab dinner?”

“I’d love to join you, but unfortunately,” Mick paused, motioning vaguely towards the stacks of paperwork lining his cluttered desk, “I seem to have amassed a ridiculous pile of paperwork.”

“Ketch being a hardass again?”

“When is he not?” Mick scoffed. “At least you got off with the field trip tour for the kids.”

“What can I say? I love kids, and kids love me,” Dean replied. It was true—kids had a tendency to flock around him whenever he was around, and Dean was unabashed in his enthusiasm to volunteer whenever there were any school field trips coming in to visit the station.

Mick clicked his pen and stared forlornly at whatever form he was working on. “Sorry, but I’m going to take a raincheck on this one.”

“It’s cool, man.” Dean stood up and packed his things. “I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?”

Mick’s only response was a shooing motion.

After stopping by Benny’s for some much-needed takeout—the man certainly knew how to cook up a mean jambalaya—Dean found himself salivating while he drove towards the library. The smell of andouille and garlic filled up his entire car as he impatiently tapped his foot at every stoplight. His stomach grumbled, digesting the remnants of whatever sad sandwich he had managed to eat in between the field trip and his paperwork.

By the time Dean found a parking spot at the library and hopped out of his car, his entire body was positively vibrating in anticipation of the food to come. He hurriedly texted Sam from his perch on a bench, the paper bags of takeout taunting him while he tried to focus his attention elsewhere, peering through the closest window of the library.

And that’s when Dean noticed the lunatic standing at a whiteboard, waving his hands wildly towards a crowd of terrified-looking people.

Okay, maybe not a _lunatic_ , because the guy seemed pretty put-together for someone going completely insane, his neatly pressed button-down rolled up at the sleeves. He whipped around towards the board and scribbled out some words that Dean—even with his sharp sense of vision—was sure couldn’t possibly be in English. ( _Grignard_? What the hell was a _Grignard_?) The only things that betrayed Grignard Guy’s possible craziness were his crooked red tie, or maybe his dark hair flapping around like it had a mind of its own—wait, no. Grignard Guy’s eyes. Definitely his eyes, all light blue and blazing with a fierce light.

And when Grignard Guy shifted his gaze towards the window and those eyes lit upon Dean’s face, Dean quickly ducked behind the takeout bag in his lap because _no, definitely not being a creep or anything, just waiting for my brother_! (Thank God for Benny and his heavy duty paper bags.)

When he felt that the coast was clear, Dean peeked around the bag warily and continued watching the scene unfold through the window. The lesson—it definitely had to be a lesson; who else wanted to study an actual gibberish language—seemed to reach a lull of sorts, with a few people mingling in groups and others texting on their phones. Grignard Guy was now bent over a table, his head hanging low as he jabbed at a page in front of a positively petrified Asian kid who looked like he was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

Dean couldn’t hear the conversation, so he wondered what Grignard Guy sounded like. Maybe he had a posh English accent like the scientists in the documentaries that Sam liked to watch, a voice that radiated authority and a holier-than-thou attitude. Or maybe he had a soft voice, the kind of voice that a elementary school teacher would use on his misbehaving kids. Dean snickered quietly as he contemplated his two options; both of them seemed equally likely.

His thoughts about Grignard Guy’s voice disappeared when the library doors burst open and his little brother barreled towards him with a feverish glint in his eyes.

“Dean! I’m so sorry that I’m late. We’re taking a break right now—let’s eat!” and Sam was rummaging through the bags, crowing when he pulled out a small box. “You got me boudin balls!”

“Eat up, Sammy.” Dean opened up a deli container and whimpered at the aromas of fresh seafood and meat mixed with rice. He eagerly dug in, barely registering the heat dancing along his tongue from the peppery flavors; Dean liked his jambalaya with a punch, and Benny always delivered the spice he craved.

The two of them ate in relative silence, Sam inhaling the boudin balls like they were his last supper before turning his attention to a box of fried catfish. “Ugh, Dean. You always spoil me.”

“You can thank Benny for the food.” Dean’s voice was muffled by the food in his mouth. “And you owe me a favor for this.”

“Whatever you want.” Sam began methodologically tearing apart the catfish.

“So Sammy, how often do you come to this library?” Dean asked.

“Whenever I have group projects or oral presentations to work on, I guess. So, I do spend a good amount of time here,” Sam chewed through another piece of catfish. “Why?”

“Have you ever seen Grignard Guy before?”

“Huh?” Sam looked confused. “Grig-nurd? What’s that?”

“I dunno,” Dean stretched his mind for the word. “It’s spelled G-R-I-G—”

“Wait, do you mean Grignard, as in _green-yahrd_?”

“Yeah! That thing,” Dean nodded enthusiastically.

Sam stared straight at his face. “Hey, do you even know what a Grignard reaction is?”

 _Busted_. “Uh, I meant the guy over there,” Dean waved his fork in the general direction of the whiteboard. “The guy with the red tie.”

“Oh,” Sam paused. “That’s Cas. I think he’s a grad student in the chem department or something? Honestly, I don’t really know him.”

“You don’t? I thought all you smarty-pants people hung out together or something.”

“And how did you come to that stunning conclusion? Sure, just like how every firefighter in the city will meet up for teatime in the afternoon.” Sam rolled his eyes. “And a Grignard reaction is a… fancy chem thing, I think. I only took one semester of orgo in undergrad, y’know.”

 _Only took one semester of orgo in undergrad, my ass_. It was Dean’s turn to scoff. Of course his smarty-pants brother would make the effort to take unnecessary classes that weren’t part of his prelaw curriculum.

“Anyways, why’re you asking?” Sam wiped his lips with a napkin.

“Nothing, no big deal.” Dean kept his voice as light as possible.

“Nuh-uh. You never mention ‘ _nothing_ ,’” Sam’s eyes narrowed as he paused to study his brother’s face. “I see how it is.”

“What? There’s nothing, Sammy,” Dean replied, keeping his voice as light as possible.

“You think he’s cute, don’t you.” His little brother stared pointedly at him.

Mortified, Dean almost gagged on a piece of shrimp. “No! Wait, no. I don’t mean like ‘ _no, he’s not cute_ ,’ more like ‘ _no, you got it wrong_ ,’ like, he’s definitely _cute_ but I’m not—” Dean floundered. “Fuck, you know what I mean.”

“Dean, how long have I known you?”

“Your entire life?”

“And how many times have you told me about your crushes?”

“Why are you calling it a—okay, fine. A shitload of times.”

“And have I ever made fun of your taste in people—specifically, those crushes?”

“Not that I can think— _hey_!” Dean caught on to Sam’s slight snicker. “So you have!”

“Please,” Sam replied, closing the empty box and stuffing it into a bag before pulling out another small container. “It’s not my fault that you have an absolute trash record when it comes to men.”

“We don’t need to go there.” Dean shuddered. He didn’t want to agree with Sam, but his brother was right. Dean’s taste in men was questionable at best.

“My point is, you don’t have to hide your crush from me.” Sam blew on his fingertips before gingerly picking up a fresh beignet, powdered sugar flying everywhere.

“Can you stop saying _crush_?” Dean shivered. Crushes were for middle school girls, not actual mature firefighting adults.

“Okay, fine.” Sam popped the beignet in his mouth. “ _Infatuation_.”

“That makes it sound ten times worse.”

“Okay, _crush_.” Sam said. “Though I must say that Cas is definitely a step up from the guys you usually go—”

“Like my ‘trash record’ in men, I get it.” Dean finished his jambalaya and capped the container. “What I was trying to say was, I just wanted to know his name for—for, uh, research purposes.”

“Uh huh. _Research purposes_.” Sam looked utterly unconvinced. “You wanted to know the name of your crush for ‘research purposes.’”

“Will you stop calling it that?”

Sam roared with laughter and promptly choked on the powdered sugar, white plumes drifting through the air. Karma was a mean one, and she played dirty.

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Dean didn’t go back to the library and Sam didn’t bring it up again, so the whole matter about Grignard Guy was put to rest. No, Dean was _not_ thinking about the mussy hair, the piercing eyes, the unkempt tie—

Okay. Fine. So he thought Grignard Guy— _Cas_ , Dean reminded himself—was hot. So what? It wasn’t like Dean was ever going to see him again, given the fact that Dean was now actively avoiding the library at all costs to save himself from further humiliation by Sam. He managed to convince himself (somewhat) that all he wanted to do was to fix that damn crooked tie, but deep down inside, Dean wanted to know more about this _Cas_ guy, why he was teaching in the library, what made him tick.

But Fate seemed to have other plans in store for Dean, and one afternoon, on his way home from the grocery store, he found himself staring into a veritable tornado of papers outside his apartment.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, there was someone kneeling on the floor, struggling to gather up the papers. Dean’s savior complex caught up to him at that point and he dropped his groceries on his doorstep before grabbing as many papers as he could to help the person. The person—a guy with dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to step straight out of Dean’s memory and into real life—apologized profusely before ducking into his apartment.

 _I have a weirdo for a neighbor_ , Dean thought, reaching down to pick up his groceries and slinging them through his door.

And there was also that one incident when Dean’s late-night bathroom karaoke managed to wake up his neighbor, who proceeded to storm over to yell at a half-naked Dean in the hallway about noise levels. During the argument (it was more like a one-sided lecture, to be honest), Dean realized that his neighbor and Cas were one and the same. A gigantic grey parrot had perched on the guy’s shoulder and cackled at Dean. Big bird aside, Dean was still coming to terms with the fact that Cas, ridiculously hot Cas, was his neighbor.

And Cas’s voice was even better than in Dean wildest fantasies, a smooth rumble that tumbled through his ears and sent shocks down his spine. It took Dean every ounce of willpower (that, and picturing Ketch in a bikini, _ew_ ) to remain calm. (There was only a tiny towel protecting his privacy.) The two of them finished their awkward exchange as Dean made up a piss-poor excuse to return to his apartment and think over his growing fascination towards Cas.

So you could say that Dean was, for lack of a better term, _hot for (his weirdo) neighbor_.

To make matters worse, the thoughts of Cas made themselves at home in the back of Dean’s mind, dancing around throughout the night and into the morning while Dean was preparing breakfast. Sam had come over the previous night—something about Dean’s place being closer to the law building.

“Sammy?”

“Ugh,” his brother groaned as he made himself a cup of coffee. Sam was not that much of a morning person. “What?”

“Hey, Sammy? Think you could teach me some of those… chem things?”

“Dude, I’m a law student, not a chem major.” Sam chomped noisily on his toast. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”

“Ask who?” Dean cracked an egg into the frying pan, watching the white ooze out into a near-perfect circle, the delicate yolk sputtering in the center.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dean. You don’t need to know high-level chemistry topics to talk to Cas.” Sam buttered another slice of toast before sticking the entire thing in his mouth.

“Of course not! Just thought that, y’know, chem things.”

“Right. _Just chem things_. When was the last time you even looked at something remotely chem-related?” asked Sam. “High school?”

“Shut up.”

“Just go to the library and talk to Cas yourself. He’s pretty strict but nice, from what I’ve heard.” Sam finished his toast. “I think that one of my residents is in his class. Poor Kevin. Orgo is not a fun subject.”

“Nah, I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” Sam stood up from the table and gathered up his things. “See you later, Dean. I’m heading to class.”

Dean watched as his brother walked to Ruby’s terrarium and grinned at the tiny bearded dragon before leaving the apartment.

“See ya, Sammy,” Dean sighed. His brother was definitely the bane of his existence.

And as it turned out, Fate was definitely up to something that day. After a quick shower, Dean flopped onto the couch and idly scrolled through Netflix for something to watch. It wasn’t long before a prickle burned its way up his neck. Something was wrong. It was too quiet.

He looked around and was shocked to discover the top of the terrarium open, Ruby nowhere to be seen.

Dean’s first thought was to have a long talk with Sam when he got back from classes.

Dean’s second thought was more along the lines of _how the fuck did that bearded lizard get out_?

And Dean’s third and final thought was less of a thought and more of pure panic. Memories of Fluffy suffocating him in the zoo came to the surface, and Dean felt his blood pressure steadily rising with each passing second. _Oh, for the love of all things scaly and slimy_.

To be fair, Ruby had been nothing but a proper houseguest. She never actually antagonized Dean and would opt to silently judge him from her perch inside the terrarium. The bearded dragon was wholly devoted to Sam, and he was the only one allowed to pick her up and pet her. (Dean barely got away with a scratch the first time.) They had settled into a relatively normal routine, and Dean was just getting comfortable with his reptilian roommate.

Now Ruby was gone, and Dean knew that his brother was going to have a complete meltdown if he didn’t locate the bearded dragon before Sam came back to feed her.

Dean paced around the living room and searched under every crack humanly possible. The kitchen and the bedroom were next, but there was no sign of the tiny bearded dragon. He even went so far as to retrieve a container of mealworms from the fridge, hoping to entice Ruby into returning to her terrarium, but no dice.

The bearded dragon, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Dean chanted in his head as he searched through his entire apartment again. How much chaos could one reptile create from her disappearance? (A lot, it seemed. Quite a lot.)

His heart sank as he realized there was one place he hadn’t checked. Surely Ruby wouldn’t have wandered outside… would she?

A loud squawk from the balcony led straight to Dean’s greatest fear.

 _Doesn’t hurt to check_. He gritted his teeth, opened the door to his balcony, and was greeted by the most confusing sight.

A grey parrot was standing on the railing, crimson eyes glaring at a small, ruby-red bearded dragon perched a few feet away on one of Dean’s houseplants, a rubber tree Mick bought him as a birthday present last year.

“I’m not high enough for this shit,” Dean declared before closing his eyes and pinching himself on the arm. He looked up. Nope. Still there.

The parrot opened its beak and hissed. “Get out.”

Ruby, to her credit, was doing an admirable job standing her ground. The bearded dragon lifted a claw and waved it tauntingly in the bird’s direction as if to say, _make me, idiot_.

“ _GET OUT_!” the parrot squawked indignantly.

Ruby hissed, her little body puffing up like a child’s balloon.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Dean muttered to himself. He crouched down until he was level with the rubber plant. “Ruby—yes, you—Ruby, get over here.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes at him.

“Ruby, come here.”

Sniffing, the bearded dragon pointedly turned away from Dean.

 _For fuck’s sake. Why am I negotiating with a fucking bearded dragon_? Dean tried again. “Ruby, I’m warning you. Remember what I told Sam the first night? Tenant sets the rules, squatter shuts his piehole? You better get your scaly butt back here before I find a good reason to throw you out. That’ll make Sam sad. You don’t want to see Sam sad now, do you?”

Finally, the bearded dragon let out a suspiciously humanlike hiss before reluctantly clambering towards Dean and clawing onto his arm.

“And you,” Dean turned his attention to the parrot. “Get out.”

He realized that the parrot wasn’t paying any attention to him and was now looking towards Dean’s plants—his rubber plant in particular.

“ _Leaf ssspot_ ,” the parrot croaked.

“What the fuck?” Dean was taken aback. _Oh great_. _I’m talking to a parrot now_.

“ _I will not ssstand for them_!” the parrot shrieked.

“Hold on. These are _my_ plants you’re talking about.” Dean was getting more and more perplexed by the second. He also felt annoyed. The plants were doing just fine, in Dean’s opinion.

“ _YOU GUYSSS, GROW BETTER_!” the parrot bellowed.

“You can _shut up now_ ,” Dean barked at the parrot and watched as the bird hopped away on the railing. “Leave me and my plants alone. Oh, and my bearded dragon.”

The bearded dragon on his arm bobbed her head enthusiastically.

The door on the adjacent balcony slid open with a squeal and a nest of back hair poked out. “What’s going on?”

And in that moment, Dean came to the conclusion that _this_ Cas, the one with bleary eyes and a fantastic bedhead, was his favorite Cas by far. Not the one lecturing students in the library and wearing a crooked tie. Not the one all flustered when Dean opened the door on him in nothing but a towel around his waist. Nope, this Cas was the best, clad in an oversized t-shirt with the words “ _when ur triene ur best but still diene inside_ ” written across the front in Comic Sans and a pair of worn black joggers that did little to hide the obvious fact that Cas was obviously fit as fuck.

Cas was still staring at him through half-lidded eyes, and when he reached up to stretch, the t-shirt lifted ever so slightly—just enough for Dean to catch a glimpse of the muscles underneath. _Ketch wearing a bikini. Ketch wearing a bikini. Ketch wearing a motherfucking bikini_ , Dean told himself as he willed his blood to flow normally upwards, not downwards.

But when Cas opened his mouth and his baritone spilled forth, Dean knew he had to get out of there fast. “Aren’t you—”

“ _Ihavetogo_ ,” Dean managed to blurt out before whirling around and storming into his kitchen, clicking the door shut behind him. He stumbled towards the terrarium and placed his hand inside, making sure that Ruby was fully dismounted and comfortable before he slammed the cover in place and buried his face in his arms.

 _So that went well_ , the little voice inside of him jeered. Dean could almost feel Sam’s disapproving gaze on his back.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just shut up!” he called out into the empty apartment. Ruby rolled her eyes in the universal, _you’re-totally-crazy_ kind of way.

Great. Now even a bearded dragon was making fun of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (guess who's finally back.  
> third chapter will be up thursday!)


	3. a macguffin of magic

Every morning, at exactly half past seven, the cage cover over Crow’s cage would pull back and a plate of freshly cut bananas, apples, and sweet potatoes would make its merry way into Crow’s cage. And exactly two minutes later, the bird himself would slink out from his comfortable nest and nibble at the fruit with gusto, slinging bits of yellow and orange in every direction. He would pick halfheartedly at his bowl of parrot pellets and drink out of his plastic water bottle as noisily as possible before flittering out of his cage like an overgrown butterfly to stretch his wings, cawing all the while.

By most standards, Crow was an overly-intelligent parrot with a penchant for mischief and a fondness for shenanigans. He knew how to count his numbers—all the way up to one thousand, even! He knew how to respond to his name, though it was usually a toss-up to see what mood he was in to see if he would respond to Crow or to Crowley. And, of course, he learned how to solve simple puzzles with the right amount of incentive; sunflower seeds usually did the trick.

Crow, for his part, found humans to be, altogether, some of the most fascinating creatures he had ever seen. He marveled at how they played little mind games with each other and enjoyed calling other animals by short, embarrassing monikers. Crow had started out as Crowley, oddly enough, and as much as he resented the nickname of _Crow_ (how dare they compare him to a common corvid), a parrot had to eat. So Crowley became Crow, and that was that.

(And yes, Crow understood the irony of the situation and would prefer not to discuss it any further at this time, thank you very much.)

Crow didn’t like to stay cooped up in tiny spaces and preferred to perch in high places, surveying the entire space underneath him like some kind, benevolent king asserting his supreme authority over his people—even if “his people” almost always only referred to a single person.

Kali was the first. Crow supposed that she was beautiful, in an intimidating sort of way, much like her goddessy namesake. The woman chose to bring him to her therapy sessions like some token mascot, something that Crow resented until he understood how she ran her practice. Kali was downright terrifying during her work, and Crow often took some sadistic pleasure in watching her systematically tear her patients apart, personal flaw by personal flaw. Occasionally, Kali would even have _him_ participate in the sessions. The patients spilled their deepest, darkest secrets to him, and Crow would hum and nod and croak in as understanding of a manner as a parrot could before watching them dissolve into a weeping, blubbering mess on Kali’s expensive chaise lounge.

( _Cathartic crying_ , Kali called it. Crow just called it _fun_.)

Then came Gabriel, and Crow found himself missing his beloved psychiatrist more times than he could count. He first met Gabriel during one of Kali’s sessions, and the parrot was wholeheartedly unimpressed at how quickly the man cracked under Kali’s mental ministrations, blubbering about his dependence on anything containing an appreciable sugar content.

Gabriel was an absolute nightmare to deal with. His apartment—if one could even call it that; “hovel” was cutting it close—was filthy and packed to the brim with tchotchkes of all kinds, ranging from an antique bobblehead collection of the Norse pantheon to a staggering hoard of Marvel Funko Pop! figures. Everything was so precariously stacked on the shelves that Crow was sure an accidental gust of wind could easily knock down the entire thing.

(And that was another thing: Crow had amazing impulse control, for a bird.)

Gabriel usually gave him wilted lettuce or gummy fruit candy, and as much as the parrot wanted to eat the sweets, he refrained from doing so. Parrots weren’t supposed to eat gummy things, not even parrots like him. And Crowley would prefer not to die in such a disgraceful manner.

And finally, when things were looking dark and Crow was at the end of his proverbial rope with Gabriel, Castiel had appeared like some glorious messiah of parrotkind, a quiet yet steely-eyed man who quickly grew to be Crow’s favorite human, by far. Sure, Castiel—or Cas, as Gabriel called him—didn’t seem to take pride in tearing people apart or fall into a deep depression while withdrawing from a saccharine addiction, but then again, Cas didn’t really have anyone over at his place besides Gabriel, and Gabriel wasn’t exactly the most representative sample of a normal human. On the plus side, Cas was definitely the cleanest and most organized human that Crow had met, although the messy stacks of papers on his dining table might beg to differ.

(And Cas actually gave him decent parrot food, not the seed-free diets that Kali had fed him or the sugar candy Gabriel had offered. Real, decent parrot food with fruits and vegetables. What was there not to love about Cas?)

Crow spent most of his time hanging around Cas whenever the human was home, and naturally, he began to realize a few things. Like how Cas always tied his ties in a crooked fashion (Crow wanted so desperately to adjust them for him), or how Cas always drank a special type of black coffee (it smelled absolutely horrid) whenever he was stressed—

Or how Cas always seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, attempting to avoid the human next door at all costs, to no avail.

Crow didn’t care much for affection or intimacy. He considered himself to be a solitary parrot that preferred the company of himself and himself only, and he had made that abundantly clear the first time some silly human had tried to introduce him to a lovely female parrot. (The incident left both human and female parrot absolutely petrified at what Crow might do next.) But that didn’t mean that Crow wasn’t interested in the mating rituals of other animals, especially humans. He found it especially entertaining to watch Cas and the human next door dance around each other like juveniles entering their first courtship, trying desperately not to step on each other’s toes in a complex yet wholly unnecessary phenomenon that Crow had taken to calling _pining_.

Ah, pining. Crow originally started out by teasing the two humans. He realized that the human next door liked to sing at night (personally, Crow found the songs a little too screechy for his taste), so the parrot mimicked his singing as best he could, much to Cas’s annoyance. That little thought experiment had culminated in the most fantastic, one-sided shouting match in the hallway between Cas and his neighbor, a shouting match so entertaining that Crow himself had flown out the open door to watch.

Crow had to admit that Cas, even as a mere human, did have a fairly strong sense of aesthetics and appearance when searching for a potential mate. The neighbor was tall and attractive by human standards (Crow had snuck in his fair share of _The Bachelorette_ during his personal Dark Ages at Gabriel’s place), and his golden-green eyes flickered in confusion when Crow came out to introduce himself.

“What the fuck?” The neighbor said before beginning to ramble on about how parrots couldn’t possibly understand what they were saying because birds weren’t as cognitively advanced as humans. Crow bit his claws in frustration. The sheer idiocy of humans was beyond his comprehension.

Crow was disappointed when the entire exchange ended with the neighbor retreating into his apartment. Nothing was exchanged between the two humans. It was an utter failure, to say the least. And Crow couldn’t stand to be a failure.

Another opportunity presented itself a few weeks later, while Crow was flouncing around the apartment. Although it was early in the morning, he had already finished devouring that day’s offerings of fruits and vegetables and was perched on top of a pile of textbooks next to the window, surveying the neighboring balcony through the screen. There were pots in a range of all shapes and sizes, each bearing a different plant. The leaves of most of the plants seemed to be healthy and lustrous, with a shiny quality that reflected the light just so.

Crow gurgled happily. Plants were great. They never talked back to you, and they never expected anything extra or special. That was why Crow loved plants.

A flash of red caught his eye, and Crow strained closer to take a look. There, on a sorry-looking rubber tree, was a tiny red lizard, its beady black eyes darting this way and that. Crow recognized it as a bearded dragon of sorts, but when he raised a claw in greeting, the bearded dragon scampered away behind the trunk of the plant. The parrot took a closer look at the plant and let out a shriek of surprise. There, on the topmost leaf, was a hideous _leaf spot_ , all brown and blotchy and _ugly_.

(If there was something that Crow hated more than forced intimacy, it was leaf spots. Or, really, anything that clashed with the verdant consistency of a healthy leaf.)

Agitated at the sudden disruption of perfect symmetry, Crow muttered angrily to himself and decided to try and find a way to get rid of it. He was so caught up in his quest to eradicate the leaf spot that he found himself on the balcony, screeching angrily at the spot in question. The tiny lizard watched him, bemused, until the screen door clattered open and a human walked out.

Crow realized that this was the neighbor, the human that Cas had been yelling at that one time in the hallway about the volume of the music. The parrot decided to up the ante, putting on a dramatic show that was sure to put even the most critically-acclaimed dramatic stage actor to shame. He squawked at the plant, at the bearded dragon, and even at the human when the human told him to get out, because nobody puts Crow in the corner, no sirree.

This, of course, led to the predictable conclusion where Cas stumbled outside and found himself face-to-face with his neighbor. Crow watched the two of them casually fumble through an entirely humiliating performance that fell, at best, below expectations. (There was nothing remotely Oscar-worthy to note.) The other human picked up the bearded dragon and returned into his dwelling, and Cas was left alone on his balcony, face turning red in confusion.

_Humans really are the dumbest cretins_. Crow did his best approximation of rolling his eyes but ended up moving his entire head in a circle. _Damn these fixed eyes_.

( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘)

If it were scientifically proven for parrots to reach their wits’ end, then Crow had shot far, far past that point. He was tired of putting up with the heart eyes that Cas would shoot in his neighbor’s general vicinity whenever the two of them walked by each other. He was fed up with all the times the neighbor had come knocking on Cas’s door to ask for a cup of sugar. (Seriously, how old-fashioned were these courting rituals? Crow had seen mere pigeons do a better job than that.) And he was altogether done with the entire situation whenever Cas would nurse a bottle of warm beer and bemoan his frustrations to his parrot companion.

(Crow had thought his days as a parrot psychiatrist were long over. And Cas never reached the point of _cathartic crying_. Without that, this job was no fun.)

Through Cas’s drunken musings, Crow was able to ascertain that the neighbor had a name—Dean Winchester—and that Cas thought that Dean Winchester was the best thing since sliced bread. (The parrot begged to differ.) Cas would wax poetic about Dean’s devotion to saving people (the man was a firefighter, apparently) and how nice he was to care for his younger brother’s bearded dragon while his younger brother lived in the pet-free dorms of the local university.

(Crow tried to talk to the bearded dragon, a feisty little thing by the name of Ruby, on several occasions, but she didn’t seem to be interested. That, and Crow didn’t think reptiles could actually verbalize. Ruby was, it seemed, a lost cause.)

But Crow wasn’t completely heartless, and he had come to harbor an odd sort of affection and compassion for the human who carefully prepared fresh food for him every single day without fail. The parrot decided to use what knowledge he had to design the perfect plan for the humans’ courtship to succeed.

Said plan involved Crow reverting to his most base instincts, something the parrot generally avoided doing at all costs. He was much better than that, but for Cas, Crow was ready to do nearly anything.

(That, and he wanted the courtship to be over as soon as possible so he could return to his regularly scheduled programming of watching _other_ dumb humans do human things.)

Which is how Crow found himself perched on the rooftop of the apartment. It had been quite an arduous expedition: first, he maneuvered himself around Cas’s screen door (a nigh-impossible task, but Crow was as stubborn as he was clever), and then he flew up several stories to the tippy-top of the complex (not an easy feat, considering how the parrot hadn’t actually _flown_ so much as _flapped around in enclosed spaces_ in what felt like millenia). By the time Crow found his desired vantage point, the midday sun was beating on his feathery back in the most uncomfortable of sensations.

Crow waddled a bit in place to find a comfy spot and took a deep breath into his lungs. (Damn bird lungs were tiny as hell.)

“ _I’M SSSTUCK_!” he screamed. The parrot waited a bit— _1, 2, 3, 4, 5_ —and, noticing that no one was watching, readied himself for Round 2.

“ _I’M SSSTUCK_ ,” he repeated. This time, a few people stopped and stared upwards, but Crow wasn’t wholly satisfied. He wanted an entire bleacher’s—nay, an entire concert hall’s—worth of attention. He wanted every single firefighter in the tri-state area to come blaring at his scaly feet. He wanted a packed venue of an audience like a touch-starved diva in her golden years.

So the parrot continued wailing, and crying, and squawking as loud as his little lungs could handle. Out of the corner of his eye, Crow noticed a crowd forming, concerned bystanders chattering hurriedly with one another. Someone was on the phone and pointing at him, but Crow still didn’t see the person he was looking for.

And finally, after what felt like hours of yelling (Crow was learning more and more things about the limits of his vocal stamina), a long, red truck pulled its way into the parking lot below. _At last_ , the parrot chortled quietly when he noticed a familiar head of blond hair make its way out of the truck. Dean was here. Crow could finally put the second part of his shoddy plan in action.

A ladder was placed against the side of the building, and Crow watched as Dean fastened a helmet on his head and carefully made his way up the ladder to the awaiting bird.

“It’s you!” Dean’s face lit up in recognition. “You’re the bird at Cas’s place. Crow, right?”

(So they were on a short-name basis as well. Interesting.)

“ _FUCK OFF_ ,” Crow spat in the human’s face.

“Whoa there, _language_ ,” Dean said, and Crow became indignant. He would not stand for a mere human’s disrespect, even if the human happened to be the object of Cas’s affections.

“ _FUCK YOU_.” There. Much better. Definitely got the point across.

“I can’t do this,” Crow heard Dean mutter to himself. “This fucking bird—”

“ _YOU SSSWORE AT ME_ ,” Crow continued. “ _I AM A BIRD_.”

The crowd below was following with rapt attention. There were even a few cell phones out and about, capturing the entire spectacle on display.

“Yes, I know that you’re a bird. And that you’re Cas’s bird.” Dean tried again. “I can’t believe that out of all the emergencies I get called to, it’s _you_.”

“ _CRAZY MAN_.”

“ _I’m_ the crazy one?” Now, Dean looked almost upset (if Crow was reading him correctly). “You’re the one screaming on the rooftop.”

“ _CRAZY. SSSTUPID. LOVE_.”

“Not Gosling’s finest work, but sure.” Dean chuckled to himself, and Crow was _this_ close to tearing out his feathers. _This human is the epitome of the folly of humanity_ , the parrot concluded.

“ _NO, YOU. YOU’RE SSSTUPID_.” And it went on and on for a while, this curious banter between human and parrot. Dean would respond to whatever comment Crow would make, and the parrot would shoot something back in a hoarse tone, neither of them getting remotely anywhere towards a resolution. By the hour mark, the crowd had thinned out, probably thinking that this was some made-up publicity stunt or public prank on the fire department. Even Dean’s fellow firefighters below were pacing around impatiently.

“Okay, seriously? I can’t waste more time on you,” Dean finally said. “It doesn’t seem like you’re in any sort of mortal peril, and this ‘emergency call’ is definitely wasting precious taxpayer money.”

“ _YOU’RE SSSTUPID_.” Crow recycled a statement from earlier on in their conversation.

“You never told me why you think I’m stupid,” Dean replied, his cool tone belying the frustration underneath. “So, how am I stupid?”

“ _CASSS_ ,” Crow offered, clicking his tongue with glee as he watched the firefighter’s face morph into a fascinating shade of pink.

“What about Cas?”

“ _YOU LOVE HIM_.”

The firefighter blanched. “What—wait, what the fuck—what, what the fuck are you on?”

“ _I AM A BIRD_.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ve already established that part. I mean, why did you say I love Cas?”

“ _CUP OF SSSUGAR_ ,” Crow replied. “ _MANY CUPSSS OF SSSUGAR_.”

“I do a good amount of baking?”

“ _LIESSS_.”

“Okay, fine. You got me there. I don’t actually bake.”

“ _CORRECT_.”

“But you never answered my question. Why did you say I love Cas?” Dean asked again. Crow could see a small car pulling into a parking space and a familiar, dark-haired man climbing out of the driver’s seat.

_Perfect timing_.

“ _CASSS LOVESSS YOU_.” Crow shrieked at the top of his tiny bird lungs, and the parrot watched the emotions tumble like a delicate house of cards right in front of him.

First, Dean almost toppled off the ladder backwards from the sheer force of Crow’s utterance, and at the same time, Cas looked up towards the rooftop in horror. The firefighters standing below were snickering loudly, the tall, lanky one struggling to control his hysterics. Dean’s face turned redder than the apples that Crow ate in the mornings, and Cas himself wasn’t doing much better. The face-flushing thing was doing wonders to both of their faces, and Crow was grateful that he didn’t have an ounce of shame in the entirety of his bony bird body.

“Just get the fuck off of the roof already, bitch!” Dean swore at the bird.

“ _OF COURSSSE_.” With one swoop of his wings, Crow glided from the rooftop and onto Cas’s shoulder. The human buckled under the excess weight.

“So you _could_ fly!” Dean was still yelling at the parrot as he climbed down from the ladder. “I’m going to kill you.”

“ _YESSS, YESSS, YOU’LL KILL ME_ ,” Crow clacked from his perch. “ _I LOVE YOU TOO_!”

“Dean?” and there was an awkward silence as Cas finally spoke. “I’m so sorry about Crow—he’s been acting up for a while, and I can’t get him to stop saying stupid things—and I’m sorry if he made you feel uncomfortable or anything—”

“Cas.” Dean was striding towards them with a long loping gait. He made a shooing motion towards Crow and the parrot flew up, alighting on the branch of a tree hanging over the scene.

“Cas,” Dean repeated. They were facing each other, and from his perch above their heads, Crow watched as Dean bit his lip. “What your parrot said. Is it true?”

“Um—”

“And don’t lie to me. I’ve had enough of your parrot’s shit.”

“Will you be mad if it’s true?” Cas asked in a small voice. The other firefighters were leaning in to hear Dean’s answer.

Dean’s only response was to tilt Cas’s chin upwards and plant one hell of an enthusiastic kiss on the bewildered man’s lips. There was whooping and hollering and a fair amount of _awww_ s. Crow even found himself doing an impromptu jig on the tree branch before he took a breath and uttered what everyone had been waiting for.

“ _FINALLY_.”

“Crow, shut _up_!” Cas was blushing something fierce, face redder than the t-shirt he had on. Dean laughed as he pressed another kiss on Cas’s forehead.

“I owe you, don’t I.” The tall, lanky firefighter was smiling as the shorter, burlier one grumbled and handed over a couple of bills. Crow peered at them.

“I told you that Dean was crushing on someone!” the tall firefighter said.

“I heard that!” Dean called over his shoulder as he led Cas towards the entrance of the apartment building. Crow followed close behind, the parrot coming to a rest on Cas’s shoulder as the human opened the door.

“So, uh, we’re on for tonight, yeah?” Dean grinned at Cas, sending him a wink that made Cas shiver all over. (Yes, Crow felt it, too.)

“I’ll be waiting,” Cas replied, leaning forward to kiss Dean’s nose before he stumbled through the doorway.

And if Cas did put Crow into a mandatory time-out in his cage for the rest of the night, the parrot wasn’t complaining one bit. He would rather be stuck inside and playing with his toys than have to listen to a minute more of Cas and his romantic issues. The parrot, however, was not prepared for what was going to happen that night.

Cas spent all afternoon preparing what seemed like an inordinately complicated meal with ingredients that Crow had never seen before. The parrot was impatient; it was almost time for his dinner, and Cas hadn’t brought him his requisite bundle of leafy kale to chew on. Then, Dean showed up with a bouquet of wildflowers and a stupid grin on his face, placing the flowers on the table before drawing Cas into a tight hug. Crow’s kale was forgotten when the two humans sat down for a meal, and Crow watched forlornly from the corner of his cage. The parrot chewed angstily on a pellet and almost gagged on the dryness, opting to drown his dissatisfaction in the water from his water bottle.

Unfortunately, there was something that Crow hadn’t accounted for in his preparation of his grand plan. He had thought, in the infinite wisdom of a parrot, that there would be a sharing of food, a sharing of company, and, perhaps, a sharing of the nest.

What Crow hadn’t counted on was the utter speed at which humans were willing to skip through the first two steps and go straight for the third.

(And just how loud humans could be. Crow swore, cross his little parrot heart, that Dean was even louder in the bedroom than he was on the rooftop. That man certainly knew his way around a proper scream. Crow was equal parts astounded and terrified.)

And after what felt like an eternity, during which Crow was debating between ramming his head against the side of his cage or clawing at his ear holes, the aforementioned man gingerly limped his way through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing to grab a glass to fill with water from the sink.

“Thanks, buddy.” Dean grinned at Crow, and the parrot suddenly felt very, very seen and very, very annoyed. Crow was by no means a voyeur, and the noises he had heard earlier were enough to fuel his nightmares for years to come.

Dean went back into the bedroom. The door was (mercifully) closed by the time another rush of moans and groans filled the air and Crow realized—much to his dismay—that _Cas_ was the one making these sounds this time. Shuddering, the parrot clawed desperately at the clasp on the cage before the cage door swung open.

Crow was free.

The bird shook his head violently to dispel the infernal noises from his mind before he hopped towards the screen door, jerked on it violently with his beak, and flew out into the moonlit sky, leaving a cloud of grey feathers in his wake.

( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘) • ( ˘⊖˘)

The bell above the coffeeshop window tinkled merrily as the door swung open and a scowling man walked in.

No one seemed to pay him any attention as he tossed a few bills at the register and retrieved a plate of lemon blueberry scones from the display case, biting into one of the pastries. The man made a beeline towards a small, innocuous table in the back of the store. There was a woman with long, fiery hair and impeccable black eyeliner sitting there, vermilion lips pursed as she delicately plaited strands of red thread between her fingertips.

“Mother.” The man nodded his head slightly in greeting before flinging himself into the opposite chair with a huff.

“Goodness, that was fast,” the woman remarked without looking up from her task at hand. “And here I was, thinking that it would take you a few more weeks to finish up your task.”

“It went smoother than expected,” the man replied, voice hoarse with misuse. He didn’t bother telling the woman about how he had almost lost his voice after his experience. Those details were best kept a secret.

“Nevertheless, I’m so glad you could make it, my dear.” The woman smiled at him, her hazel eyes twinkling. She placed the woven threads gently on the table before taking a sip from the steaming mug in front of her. It smelled faintly of fragrant ginseng and sweet oolong. “How did it go?”

“Fantastic, as usual.” The man clicked his tongue. He could feel something stuck in between his teeth, and it was bugging the hell out of him.

“And how are _you_ feeling, my dear? How was it for you?” the woman asked.

“Absolutely horrifying. I will never get the taste of ZuPreem out of my mouth. And I hate sweet potatoes.” The man spat a sunflower seed shell into his hand and eyed it with disgust. He flicked the shell onto the floor and snapped his fingers. The shell vanished.

“You did say you wanted a challenge, no?” The woman returned to her handiwork. “And I trust that it all worked out.”

“It was hardly a _challenge_ ,” the man drawled, picking up a lemon blueberry scone and picking at the glaze, his red eyes focused on his humdrum task. “They were practically half in love with each other. I didn’t even need to use my arrows or anything. All they needed was a push—wait, no. I take that back. A nudge.”

“Oh, darling. Your nudges have been known to be quite persuasive, you know.”

“All humans are the same, simple and emotionally-imbalanced as they are.” The man coughed lightly. “It was less of a nudge and more of a simple idea, really.”

“But still,” the woman paused. “Sometimes the smallest flap of a butterfly’s wing leads to the greatest of all miracles.”

“You’ve been reading too much into those silly little human philosophers, haven’t you?”

“Tsk, tsk, my dear. Humans are lovely little things.” The woman nodded, peering off into the distance. “I see that their bond is as strong as ever. You did an excellent job.”

“Yes, yes. I know, I’m great.” The man bit into the scone and practically chirped with approval. Damn birds and their damn taste buds. Who knew that a cheap bakery sweet would taste so delightful after so many months of bland birdseed?

“It seems as if some of your... _proclivities_ have carried over,” the woman said with mild amusement. Her fingers were deftly twisting the threads, streaks of red coming together into an intricate design.

“And whose fault was that?” the man growled.

“Mine, I suppose. But you did say you wanted to test your abilities. I merely presented you with an idea. You made the final decision yourself.” The woman paused her weaving and pulled out a pair of scissors to trim the edges. She handed the thin, handwoven bracelet to the man, who slipped it on his wrist and visibly sighed with relief. “There. Feeling better?”

“Of course.” The man dropped his half-eaten scone on the plate and flexed his fingers, relishing the new burst of power flowing through his body and nourishing his bones.

“Wonderful,” the woman clapped her hands together. “Now, what would you say if I told you I had another task for you, something along more—shall we say, _traditional_ lines?”

The man glared at her. “Mother, I am not turning into a fat, half-naked, winged infant in this establishment.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, no! Not here—no one in their right mind would want to look at that.” The woman threw her hands up dramatically in mock horror. “Besides, I was thinking more about branching into the notion of inter-realm romance, if you must know.”

“... Inter-realm romance.”

“Correct.”

The man closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to banish his growing headache. “Are you quite possibly referring to the lovely Fairy Folk, by any chance?”

The woman’s mouth eased into a catlike grin. “Perhaps.”

“And need I remind you that Titania has not forgiven me for the minor chaos I caused the last time I was involved?”

“I’m certain she hasn’t, dear. But that donkey-headed blight of hers wasn't worth a single hair on her pretty head. There is one young woman I have had my eyes on—she has beautiful hair like fire... like me, as a matter of fact—with an incomprehensible obsession with something humans call _LARPing_? Poor thing— her thread stretches past these mortal dimensions.” The woman’s expression became serious. “You, out of everyone, should know that the red thread is never wrong.”

The man hesitated. “And I don’t need to turn myself into a foul fowl this time.”

“I imagine that the fairies themselves will already be quite the lot to handle.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” the man snarled, standing up and shoving another scone into his pocket. “It’s not like I have a choice, anyways.”

“Fergus, darling. You always have a choice. You just choose to come back to me each time,” the woman replied sweetly. “Now then, off you go.”

The man stalked away, hurriedly dusting off loose, grey feathers that clung to his overcoat before vanishing through the coffeeshop door.

“ _The course of true love never did run smooth_ ,” the woman murmured quietly to herself, smiling as she unspooled more red thread and prepared for her next craft.

**Author's Note:**

> a somewhat fun prompt from Lily over at the [PB Discord](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)
> 
> fun fact: kevin is based on a real person (me. it's me. i am that struggling orgo student.)


End file.
